


It's Just Spilled Milk

by noblealice



Category: Fringe
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-17
Updated: 2011-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:45:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblealice/pseuds/noblealice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after S3's "The Day We Died", dealing with the fallout of Peter's non-existence and what that means for alt!Livia</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Just Spilled Milk

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta fidesangelus who was super nice to me. Dedicated to hjea, Happy Birthday!

Charlie intercepts her before she can grab her glasses case from her desk, halting her retreat.

“That was a hell of a spike. Thermal, radiation and seismic were all going off the charts like nothing I’ve ever seen before. You got any clue about what we’re in for?”

She keeps her head down, wishing she kept her workspace tidier. “It’s not a Fringe event.”

“I kinda figured that, since all the readings leveled off almost immediately. You should’ve seen it, one second all the junior agents were scrambling for gas masks and the next everyone’s standing around scratching their asses trying to figure out what the hell happened.”

She starts rooting about in her desk drawer in earnest, tossing things to the floor in her haste. “Hey, you okay? What happened?” Charlie reaches out a hand, stilling her arm.

“The other side, they made a…” She doesn’t know how to describe it. It wasn’t a bridge, but depending on what door you exited from, you were led to a different universe.

“What? A bomb?”

“No, it was..."

Charlie considers snapping his fingers in front of her face but instead repeats her name, softer this time. “Olivia? You there?" He nudges her shoulder with his own as he attempts to pull her from her thoughts. "Did they have a million clowns come out of a tiny car or something?” She lets out a sliver of smile, lightly smacking him on the arm. “First of all, I’m not scared of clowns, I just don’t trust them.” He rolls his eyes at this tired defense. “Second of all?”

She still didn’t think she knew how to properly phrase it and wished that crossing universes came with a crash course on terminology for dealing with one’s alternate self. “You know all the rifts in our universe? I think they took all the holes and….well, they didn’t so much as patch them up as move them all to one spot.”

He stares at her blankly, waiting for her to continue. “Okay, you’re going to have to explain that one to me. Stay here, I’ve got some rationed granola bars stashed in the far corner of the fridge.”

“How’d you manage to keep them a secret?”

“They’re in a container labeled ‘warning - in case of emergency parasitic outbreak’”. She lets a small laugh escape as he jogs off.

She tells him the story as people are still running around, sending out calls to agents in the field and searching for any reports of abnormal activity. After an hour it becomes clear that what the other side did to the machine didn’t seem to make things worse. She could already see the physics of her universe returning to a level of stability she hadn’t seen since she started this job.

There had always been a small soft spot in the women’s bathroom. No-one ever reported it because it was centered solely around the tampon dispenser and it allowed anyone to retrieve the coins they inserted into the slot. When she had finally convinced Charlie to give her enough of a break from the story to visit the ladies room, there were half a dozen women staring at the machine, disappointment on their face as, one by one, their money made a small clink as it hit the bottom of the metal box instead of the familiar clatter of coins hitting the bathroom floor.

Charlie doesn’t seem to understand why she comes back wheezing with laughter from the bathroom and after another fifteen minutes spent trying to explain what she still doesn’t know, she really needs a nap.

But first she had to do something, feed someone. She had responsibilities now that came before her own comfort. Except...her mother was safe at home and she wasn’t watching Mrs. Steinburg‘s cat this week. She hadn’t had anyone to share a meal with since Frank.

She was still puzzling over this urge when Lincoln walked up to them, huge grin on his face and arms open wide. “Never fear, your supreme commander is here.”

"Nice of you to finally grace us with your presence.” Charlie drawled out, legs propped up on his desk.

"Hey, I rushed over as soon as I got the call.” Lincoln took a lazy swipe at the feet, knocking them back to the floor. Charlie merely sent him a Cheshire cat grin that promised retribution would be coming.

“It’s not my fault Olivia lives so far away and the Brooklyn Bridge was hell. Felt like every looky-loo got out of their cars to see the East River. I still can’t believe the vortex has disappeared.”

Two sets of raised eyebrows met his face. “I’m serious! It’s gone and now the water is as still as, well it was never still as a lake to begin with but it’s—“

Charlie cut him off, the condescension evident in his voice “As still as a river?”

“Smartass.”

He turns to Olivia, “next time I visit, I’m bringing a siren for my jeep.”

He smiles at her and she returns it out of courtesy, but a voice in her head wonders why he was at her place.

 

\---

 

Olivia’s official de-briefing is actually shorter and less involved than Charlie’s interrogation the night before. Once free, she tries to sneak out for a quiet moment alone. Lincoln, of course, catches up with her. He’s never been good at watching from a distance, hardly able to keep from leading a mission despite third degree burns covering 90% of his body. He’s not a delegator by nature, preferring instead to be in the thick of the action and annoyingly close to her.

His face looks like he wants to ask if she’s okay but he knows her too well to pry. She’s glad; she hasn’t been okay in about six months.

“So, cut the official crap, how was it?”

With such an open-ended question she doesn’t know where to start. He seems to sense her hesitancy and narrows things down for her, gives her a target to focus on.

Lincoln was always good at boiling down the big picture so it fit within her sights.

“I mean, what was it like to see your...” He trails off, still not sure what to call the woman from the other side. She certainly didn’t seem to be a mirror version of herself and so she would hesitate to call her a duplicate or double. But she felt very strongly that a distinction needed to exist, that there should be no confusion.

Apparently, when universes collide the grammar and syntax gets confusing.

She feels unprepared for so many things and irrationally, she wishes that she had been taught about this in school or prepped for this scenario by her drill sergeant. She has always had some sort of protocol to fall back on and now she feels as though she is walking on a tight-rope over a gaping abyss.

Lincoln is still waiting for her answer, as patient as she’s ever seen him. She doesn’t fidget, her feet are always planted flat on the floor to better ground herself, but she can feel the vibration coming from where Lincoln’s toes are tapping away with the same frenetic energy she always identifies with him.

She chooses her words carefully, rolling each syllable around in her mouth before letting it loose. “It was certainly a _unique_ experience. One I’m not sure I want to repeat.”

She wants him to leave. She wants to get home to check on----she racks her brain for a reason because the need to return to her apartment is so strong. Lincoln wouldn’t have left her oven on, or even her lights. In fact, he probably did some of her dishes since he knew she was too busy being stressed to care.

Which wasn’t like her at all and she can’t remember why she’s been neglecting everything recently. Ever since cadets she’s always been orderly, the fear of a surprise inspection fleeting within weeks, but the pride of a kit made up well sticking with her.

She closes her eyes, too many thoughts swirling around in her head, jumbling together until there are gaps she can’t cross.

Lincoln shifts beside her, his arm warm against hers, his thigh knocking into her knee. He’s warm and solid and here and that comforts her for some reason. He’s something the Secretary can’t take away and she allows herself to let down her guard for a moment; to tuck the soldier away in a box so that the woman can rest her head easily on the shoulder of a friend.

He slings his arm around her body with the ease of many years and practice. “I can’t wait to meet me. Just think, that much charm in the same room?”

The thought scares her – what would it be like to see his familiar face looking at her but without the same smile, the same friendly recognition and camaraderie. She thinks it might break her heart to meet a version of Lincoln that doesn’t know her and she plans to avoid it for as long as possible.

She’s relieved he doesn’t seem to notice her flash of fear. She’s never been one to shield her emotions from her best friends, but something feels different now and she doesn’t want Lincoln to see her vulnerable. It's become a matter of principle to keep up the act.

Of course, if Lincoln noticed anything, it hasn’t slowed his tongue down. “Think how much we’d get done together. We’re both so efficient that Fringe events will be halved by the second day. We’d be the new dynamic duo, a team they’d write comic books about.”

“Are Charlie and I stuck as your sidekicks?”

“You wish! Astrid is the most competent agent here, so if she consents, she’s totally my sidekick. You two can be recurring characters, the comic relief maybe.”

She sends him a glare that would wither a green agent but Lincoln isn’t fazed and continues on. “Hey, it’s a better gig than poor Priya gets, she’ll just have to settle with the role of my love interest.” He leans back as he says this, his voice that of a self-assured man, confident in getting what he wants.

Priya’s long-time crush on Lincoln is well known in the Fringe Division and Olivia lets out a bark of laugh. “That’s right. Her heart might stop at the sight of two of you in the same room. At the very least I expect her to faint.”

“Please, I don’t need any help making women swoon, even if it’s from someone as handsome as me.”

“You’re such a horrible flirt. That girl probably thinks you’re going to marry her and give her lots of ---” She stops, her tongue fumbling over a word that brings a wave of loss crashing over her. She stares at her shoes and feels like a giant. Everything about her is too big. From her socks to her shirt, it feels like she’s swimming in her clothes and she wants to reach out to Lincoln for a life line.

When she looks up at him he’s staring at the wall opposite them and she’s glad she doesn’t have to worry about his gaze burning into her.

“No, we went out for drinks once.”

His voice is quiet and subdued when he says it and Olivia feels something twist inside her. This isn’t the Lincoln she’s used to and she’s suddenly irrationally angry at Priya for halving his volume, for sapping his energy.

“We talked and she understands the situation. Haven’t been out again and the last I heard she was dating Ty.”

The wrenching feeling fades quickly when his meaning sinks in and she forces herself to relax her shoulders. “Right, well it’s complicated with the whole ‘boss and his employee’-dynamic. Did she take it well?”

“Actually...we...I mean...” Finally he gives up, smiles at her. “Yeah, like a peach.”

The word makes her mouth water and she collapses into his side once more, sighing into the curve of his collarbone. “Oooh, do you think the other side still has peaches?”

 

\---

 

She picks up the framed photo of two fresh-faced recruits, ready to take on the universe and wonders why it’s been moved down from its place. She walks to put it back until she remembers that she had moved it to make room for a different photo. Except now she can’t find the new picture. It can’t be of Rachel, all of her photos of her sister are kept safely tucked in a shoebox under her bed.

It doesn’t stop her from getting down on her stomach to wriggle in the dust to retrieve the box but any sense of accomplishment is short-lived because none of the pictures are right. It was something different, something special and now she can’t find it.

She has a nagging feeling like her floors are too clean and despite all the clothes she throws down to cover the cold hardwood, she still feels as though someone else’s socks and shirts should join hers in the hamper.

She feels thin and haggard and there are only a few people in her life that won’t laugh at her or worse, take her in for questioning and testing. Talking to her mother would only make her worry and she can’t bear to see fear reflected in someone else’s eyes. In the end, the choice of who to call is easy.

Lincoln shows up promptly, goodies in tow. “Fully raised white bread with real peanut butter. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion and I figure you need some cheering up.”

“How did you manage this?” She smiles in awe as she lets him in, her nose already teasing her with the scent of day old bread.

“Well, the peanut butter wasn’t too hard, but I had to sell my body for the loaf, even if it’s not exactly fresh.” He moves past her to the tiny kitchen, rattling around for knives. He looks back at her, calling over his shoulder, “so I want plenty of flattery with emphasis on how smart and pretty I am when I flutter my eyelashes.”

She had to laugh and it would be a welcome relief except that she covered her mouth quickly with her hand, afraid of waking---who exactly?

Lincoln seemed to sense the need for quiet, like they had to be solemn for the empty room next to them.

“Hey, maybe now that this bridge of yours exists, we can get you some real ice cream for when you call me at 3am.”

“I’d rather coffee.” She licks her lips, trying to remember how strong and fresh it had tasted on the other side. Sometimes she wakes in the middle of the night missing something desperately and it took her a few days to realize what could possibly be upsetting her so much until she realized she misses when the other Olivia’s coffee machine had been her alarm, gently waking her with the aroma of roasted beans. The memory is so strong it always takes her ages to get back to sleep.

Lincoln bites back a groan. “Ugh, don’t tease me with that, Liv. It’s been years since I’ve had anything other than a military-issue energy pack.”

“You mean the donkey piss they poured into us as cadets? You still drink that swill?”

“It’s an acquired taste! And sometimes it helps to be a little extra alert.”

“Well well, you think you know someone and then they drop a bombshell on you.”

The room grew quiet – Olivia sensed that she’d gotten in over her head and busied herself with getting out napkins and plates since he was making a terrible mess.

There was something new when she was around Lincoln, it was the same thing that had her fingers instinctively calling him – and not just because she didn’t want to interrupt Charlie’s date with Sonia. She wanted him there with his easy smile and comforting chatter, filling up the silence that had taken up residence in her mind when all the answers she was searching for eluded her.

It was strange and thrilling and secure all at once but it still made her chest constrict with panic. She’d never had to carry the weight of other people around with her before and she didn’t know if she’d ever get used to it.

She’s never been one for liquor so they’re drinking weak tea and laughing, trading war stories they’ve both heard a hundred times before. It’s the best she’s felt in weeks. She finally feels like herself again, her smile ready and waiting to shine at the tiniest hint of a reason to. For the first time in weeks she doesn’t feel like a part of her is missing. She feels relief. She’s free.

There had been a burden forced upon her and somehow, she’s managed to shake it off tonight. She wonders if she’s finally accepting Frank’s departure but all she knows is that she can laugh loudly at 3 in the morning and there’s no guilt. She can sleep in tomorrow and there will be no consequences if she doesn’t leave her bed until noon.

She thinks about the Secretary, about how he pulled her into this fight because it was convenient for him. It wasn’t against her wishes because she was following orders, but she was never really shown all the cards and given a choice. She was never really consulted on things that involved her intimately and is suddenly very glad that he’s suspended her. The shame has faded because now she doesn’t have to think about it if she doesn’t want to and the hardest decision she’ll make is what to eat for breakfast. She never asked to be involved and she feels lighter, as if the emotions have been literally weighing her down.

Then Lincoln laughs a bit too boisterously, knocking over the jug she’d filled with all the evaporated milk packets she had left and seeing the white liquid spill on the floor is enough to bring all those emotions back.

She’s down on her knees in a second, trying to mop up the mess that’s spreading faster than she can contain it. Suddenly, none of her tea towels are soft enough and a bath towel seems too big while the fluffy hand towels from her washroom are too small. Nothing is right, nothing fits. She knew she had the perfect thing. She _had_ it. She just couldn’t remember where she had put it.

She got up to pull apart her linen closet, tossing rumpled bed skirts she’d never learned to fold properly. Her breath was coming out in ragged gasps and she felt the lack of sleep catch up with her. Her lungs seemed to shrink until her breaths were coming in wracked sobs.

“Liv?” Lincoln’s concerned voice sounded like it was miles away instead of just to her left.

“These blankets are too big. How did I never see that before? They’re huge.”

“They’re what fit on your bed. Why don’t we make your bed?”

Her shoulders slumped and she allowed herself to be dragged along, a good soldier following orders.

“In a weird way, I think I know how you feel.”

“What?”

“I mean, not the linen closet, but I feel like we should be making a different bed. Is that weird?”

She wants to say yes. _Yes, it’s weird and we’re probably both insane. Yes, we should go into headquarters and get our heads examined._

 _Yes, and I’m so glad I’m not alone._

Instead she shrugs, mumbles out “probably, but when has that ever mattered before? With our job, we’re the Captains of Weird.”

He chuckles, “the King and Queen of Weird.”

She laughs with him, giddy with exhaustion and happy that he’s willing to stand by her side. That at least she isn’t by herself.

When firing a rifle, you’re supposed to squeeze the trigger on the exhale. She blows out an unsteady breath before moving closer to him, their bodies inches apart now. It's so easy for her to lean over to press her lips against his.

She doesn’t keep her eyes open to see if she’s hit the target, deciding that just this once, she’ll trust her instincts.


End file.
